In ten minutes they were at the small cottage Sam and Remi had rented a block from the beach on the south side of Grand Isle. It was a one-story on stilts, with white-painted clapboard siding and a big front porch where they could sit at the end of the day and feel the breeze off the Gulf of Mexico. Sam and Remi liked to be anonymous when they traveled, and there was nothing about the cottage that would prompt anyone to think the couple renting it was a pair of multimillionaires. There was a low roof over the porch, a pair of big windows with an almost unobstructed view of the water, two bedrooms, and a small bathroom. They had converted one bedroom into a storage-and-work area for the objects they had brought up from the sunken Paleo-Indian village.

Ray Holbert entered with them, and Sam took him on a tour of the artifacts while Remi took the first shower. Sam handed him the grid with the meticulously drawn objects found in various spots. There were also memory cards full of photographs that Remi had taken to ensure that there was a record of each object in relation to the others. The artifacts were stored in plastic boxes.

Holbert looked at the grid of the village and the artifacts. “With this number of deer antlers and bones, it looks as if the rising water changed the landscape a lot. There were probably forested ridges then. Now it’s mostly bayous and sea-level flats.”

“It’s sort of a shame to move on,” Remi said. She had showered and changed into Grand Isle evening attire—a pair of shorts and a loose short-sleeved polo shirt with a pair of flip-flops. “Although I won’t miss our shadows.”

“What do you mean?” asked Holbert.

“It’s probably our own fault,” said Sam. “There’s another dive boat that’s been following us. They watch where we go, then stare at us with binoculars. Today they came within a yard of our boat, as though they wanted to see what we had brought up.”

“That’s odd,” said Holbert. “This is the first I’ve heard of them.”

“Well, as I said, maybe it’s just us. It’s the price of having our names in the papers,” Sam said. He looked at Remi. “Or maybe Remi’s picture. Well, I’ll help you load this stuff into your truck before I take my shower.”

In twenty minutes Holbert’s white pickup truck was loaded, and soon they were in the restaurant for a meal of shucked oysters, grilled shrimp with remoulade sauce, freshly caught red snapper, and a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from Kistler Vinyards in California. After they’d eaten, Sam said, “What do you think? Would you like to share another bottle of wine?”

“No, thanks,” said Ray.

“None for me either,” said Remi. “If we’ve just got one more day at this village, I’d like to get an early start. After tomorrow, we could spend the next few days swimming around, finding nothing.”

“That’s right, we could,” said Sam. They said good night to Ray, walked home to their cottage, locked the door, and turned off the lights. They let the overhead fan turn lazily above their bed and went to sleep listening to the waves washing in along the beach.

Sam woke as the first ray of sun shone through the opening in the curtain, thinking he would tiptoe out of the bedroom to keep from waking Remi only to find her sitting on the front porch with a cup of coffee, dressed and waiting for him, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico.

Sam and Remi stopped at a coffee shop to buy croissants and coffee, then arrived at the marina, walked along the dock to the berth where they had tied their rented dive boat, and then stopped. “See that?” she whispered.

Sam nodded. He was already squinting, stepping silently out of his shoes and onto the foredeck of the boat. The cabin was closed, but the padlock’s hasp had been knocked off with a heavy blow. He opened the sliding door and looked down into the cabin. “Our gear is all screwed up.”

“Tampered with?”

“That doesn’t quite cover it. All screwed up is the technical term.” Sam took out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Hello, Dave? This is Sam Fargo. We seem to have a problem this morning. We’re at the marina, and the dive boat we rented from you has been broken into. It looks like they broke our regulators, cut the rubber on the masks and fins. Can’t tell what they did to the tanks, but I’d be really careful putting them under pressure. I haven’t checked the engine yet or the gas tank. If you could get us resupplied right away, we could still go out. Meanwhile, I’ll call the police.”

Dave Carmody said, “Hold on, Sam. I’ll be there in half an hour or so with everything you need. And better let me call the cops for you. Grand Isle is a small place, and they know me. They know they have to live with me another twenty years.”

“Thanks, Dave. We’ll be here.” Sam put away his phone and went to sit on the foredeck. For some time he didn’t move, just stared out at the open water.

Remi watched him closely. “Sam?”

“What?”

“Promise me you’re not planning something out of proportion.”

“Not out of proportion.”

“Am I going to want to be carrying bail money?”

“Not necessarily,” he said.

“Hmmm,” she said as she studied him. She took out her phone and punched in another number. “Delia?” she said. “This is Remi Fargo. How are you? Well, that’s just great. Is Henry in court or anything? Think I could talk to him? Wonderful. Thank you.”

As she waited, Remi walked toward the stern of the boat. “Henry?” she said. “I just wanted to ask you a little favor.” She turned her face away from Sam and lowered her voice while she said something Sam couldn’t hear. She turned again and walked toward Sam. “Thanks, Henry. If you give him a little heads-up, I’d appreciate it. Bye.”

“What Henry was that?” Sam asked.

“Henry Clay Barlow, our attorney.”

“That Henry.”

“He advised me we didn’t need bail. Instead he’s calling a friend of his in New Orleans, who will be prepared to come roaring down here in a helicopter with a suitcaseful of money and a writ of habeas corpus if we need him. Henry says he’s slick as an eel.”

“Henry would consider that high praise. What will that cost us?”

“Depends on what we do.”

“Good point.” Sam heard a sound and looked up the dock. “There’s Dave from the dive shop.”

Dave’s truck stopped at the end of the dock. He came along the floating dock with a uniformed policeman beside him carrying a toolbox. The cop was big and blond, with broad shoulders and a potbelly, so the shirt of his uniform looked as though it might pop a button. “Hi, Sam,” Dave said, then gave a slight bow: “Remi.”

Sam got up. “That was quick, Dave.”

“This is Sergeant Ron Le Favre. He figured he should look this over before we replace your gear.” As soon as Dave’s eyes passed across his boat he got distracted and pointed. “Look at that cabin door. That’s imported hardwood, varnished so you could have shaved in it.”

Sergeant Le Favre stepped onto the boat. “Pleased to meet you both.” He took a camera out of his kit and began snapping photographs of the damage. As he did, he asked, “Mr. Fargo, what do you suppose is going on? Anything stolen?”

“Not that I can see. Just wrecked.”

“Anybody around here mad at you?”

“Not that I know of. Everybody’s been friendly until now.”

“You have a theory?”

Sam shrugged. Remi glared at him, puzzled and frustrated.

“Okay. I’ll write this up,” said Sergeant Le Favre. “That way, Dave can submit it to his insurance company. First, I’ll check around to see if anybody was sleeping on his boat last night. Maybe somebody saw something.”

“Thanks very much, Sergeant,” said Sam. He went to work helping Dave Carmody carry the damaged equipment to his truck and the new equipment to the boat. Next he started the engine, and he and Dave listened to it, opened the hatch, and looked at the belts and hoses. Before Dave left Sam said, “Dave, this is probably because somebody got interested in what we were diving for. We’ve had some publicity lately, so this is probably the price. Just tote up the cost and put it on our bill. I don’t want you putting this on your insurance and then having them jack up your rates.”